Fulfilling Destiny
by KylaBosch
Summary: In order to survive, one must first learn to adapt. Two years after the events of Resident Evil V, Albert Wesker and Claire Redfield find themselves joining forces again to face a new, unexpected threat. One far greater than anything they have ever known. /Continuation to Questioning Destiny/ *Eventual Weskerxclaire*
1. An Unwelcome Reunion

In a world where change is inevitable and continuous, the need to achieve that change without violence is essential for survival. ~Andrew Young

* * *

Albert Wesker studies his reflection in the mirror before him. The face that stares back at him is entirely unrecognizable. His facial features normally chiselled is now soft and aged, much like the rest of his otherwise athletic physique. Only his once reptilian eyes, having since returned to their natural shades of dark blue, remains untouched by the finely crafted prosthetics. Even they are protected by contacts designed to limit light exposure.

Everything that once marked him as unique now lays hidden, enabling Albert to appear as just another nameless, faceless VIP of high business society.

Two years has passed since Albert made _escape_ with Ada's assistance, from the B.S.A.A. labs in Queensland, Australia. It has been nearly as long since the world last set eyes upon him.

Upon returning to a makeshift safehouse, Albert was forced to face the horrible truth. Everything he had ever known and relied upon was destroyed.

The local military and the B.S.A.A. had since located and demolished all of his labs. Destroying, in the process, all of his precious research data. The Pharmaceutical Consortium by contrast had liquidated the majority of his domestic and international bank accounts. Then there was his physical work, his research, first stolen by Alexander, then ruined in a moment of utter madness.

With no readily available resources, or vast financial means and eyes certain to be watching his every move. Albert Wesker had little choice but to begin anew.

With the remains of a failed test subject, and some of his own tissue samples, Albert created an illusion of his own demise.

The B.S.A.A. eager to put the humiliation of his escape behind them, fell easy prey to his ploy. The media too, was more than happy to indulge them and their supposed _victory._

Soon, news anchors and journalists everywhere were telling sensational tales of poetic justice: Infamous bio-terrorist killed by his own weapons of mass destruction! Death, as they eagerly claimed, was by viral infection. Autopsy reports were promptly sent to all the right people with further confirmation that vast amounts of PG67A/W had, indeed, been found on his mutated remains.

Most speculated Albert Wesker had met his end at the hands of a hitman. Reparation, they assumed, for his role in Tricell and Umbrella's catastrophic downfall.  
With the _death_ of Albert Wesker many began to believe the war on bio-terrorism was finally nearing its end.

For Albert Wesker it marked the end of Oswell Spencer's twisted legacy, and the beginning of his own true destiny; a terrifying and exhilarating notion.

With his previous life now _forfeit_ Albert was quick to take on a new identity. After thorough research, he decided to pose as Sebastian Ross; a high-ranking scientist who once served in Umbrella's Arklay lab. In life, he was a quiet man, a veritable hermit who had little use for human interaction. In death, he was all but forgotten. What few relatives or associates that personally knew the man were also dead. Killed off during the T-Virus outbreak of Raccoon City.

With great care, Albert took to rewriting Sebastian Ross life story. Twisting the truth, so that he had, indeed, survived the T-virus outbreak. Mindful of possible exposure, Albert made sure the man had received subsequent punishment for his role in Umbrella's illegal BOW research. Through forgery, and pieces of evidence, it appeared that Sebastian Ross had served his sentence in full. Having convinced his jailers that he turned a new leaf, the former researcher had been released on good behaviour. Thus, ensuring no one would bother questioning why a man of his age was looking to start a new life.

Taking advantage of the fact no pharmaceutical company would ever hire Mr. Ross due to his tainted past, Albert, under his new guise, proceeds to reinvent his work.

Despite a lack of endless funds and illicit contacts, 'The Organization' slowly begins to take shape. This time as a lawful and perfectly legal pharmaceutical corporation; everything, Oswell Spencer despised.

Vengeance, never looked more inviting, or daunting.

It has been a year since Sebastian Ross was first reintroduced to society; nearly six months since his former enemies first took notice. Tonight, marks Mr. Ross' first foray into the public eye. Having procured a very rare invitation to a highly publicized TerraSave fundraiser soiree, Albert knows all eyes will be on him. Watching, waiting, for any sign of illegal or questionable intent.

Only, there will be none found.

With a soft sigh, Albert straightens his tailored Armani suit one last time. With no allies, no hidden funds available, and nowhere to hide, there can be no room for errors. His disguise must be impeccable. 

* * *

_Mr. Ross_ is readily welcomed to the grand hall of TerraSave's fanciful soiree. No one even casts him a second glance. To them, he is just another up and coming VIP. Another wealthy old fool, looking for a pat on the back, because he is about to dump vast amounts of money into a world-famous charity.

Unfortunately for them, he is not here to make donations.

It takes no time for Albert to catch sight of his former foes. There is Jill Valentine, looking far healthier, despite her now cropped brown hair. She moves among the rich and famous, charming everyone she meets with a disarming smile and a few well-chosen words.

 _Ms. Valentine has them all wrapped around her finger. Fool girl, doesn't even realize it,_ William notes. The phantom researcher is smirking, or so Albert envisions in his mind's eye.

He notices Dr. Rebecca Chambers chatting with the former US Marine, turned BSAA agent, Second Lieutenant William Coen. It comes as no surprise that William, Billy as he is better known, has been taken into their cause. The man was a perfect addition to their growing team; as great a heroic fool as the rest of them.

Sheva Alomar is there too. Of all the members who make up the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance, it is this quiet woman who has truly earned his respect. Claire Redfield did well in choosing her to be their contact years ago.

Ms. Alomar briefly meets his gaze. The scrutiny he witnesses in her eyes leaves Albert certain that she has seen through his guise. She glances away, and the tension lifts. He should know better than that.

'Well, what do we have here. Representing Umbrella, are we?'

Albert's blood runs cold upon hearing the familiar voice of his arch nemesis, Chris Redfield. Briefly, he debates whether or not the muscled man before him is just another phantom of his mind. The over-powering stench of aftershave and cheap cologne tells him otherwise.

Just when blind rage and hate threatens to consume him a single thought pulls Albert back to reality. There could be no room for error. Mr. Ross had never been a man prone to losing his temper. In fact, he was known to be a man of outstanding self-discipline and control.

Sebastian Ross had also been a British expat. A businessman, whose family once lingered within London's high society, until scandal and bankruptcy forced them to seek a new life oversea. The long hours spent working with a speech therapist were about to pay off.

Biting back a snap reply, Albert faces the soldier with a calm that he does not feel. There can be no room for error, he reminds himself.

'I am of the understanding that TerraSave, and your associates the B.S.A.A, welcomed all who are sincere in absolving their past crimes. Have I been mistaken in this assessment?'

'That supposed to convince me you're now one of the 'good guys'?' Chris snorts. The oversized ape had done his homework after all.

Unconvinced and undeterred, Chris glares at him with folded arms. A pitiful attempt to dominate over _Mr. Ross_ diminutive, doughy figure. It takes all Albert's willpower to keep from attacking the soldier outright. He had come too far to ruin it all in a heated moment of rage.

'Would never dream of it,' Albert instead replies in smooth tones. 'Although, it seems to me, there are many amongst your numbers whose conscience aren't nearly as spotless as they'd like us to believe.'

Chris eyes narrow in response.

Taking his cue, _Mr. Ross_ politely continues. 'Is it not true that Second Lieutenant William Coen was once court-martialled for another man's crimes? If I recall correctly, he was to be sentenced to death was he not?

And what of Agent Sheva Alomar; survivor of Plant 57 outbreak, and recovered child soldier. Then of course, there's Agent Valentine-'

'Jill is nothing like you!' Chris growls, cutting him off.

Albert inwardly sighs; still ever hot-headed fool. 'The point I'm trying to make, Agent Redfield, is that no one, not even you, are truly without sin.'

The soldier's face flushes in anger and for an instant Albert is certain Chris is going to swing a fist when Ms. Valentine intercedes. 'Is everything alright?' she asks; entirely civil and professional to a fault. _A pity her fool-headed boyfriend had never picked up her penchant for manners,_ Albert muses.

'Quite. I was just expressing my appreciation, to our-compatriot, of the gracious nature of the B.S.A.A. and their associates, TerraSave,' _Mr. Ross_ begins in cordial tones. 'It is not often that one is allowed the opportunity to redeem themselves of past mistakes.

I am indebted to your superiors, as it were.'

Taken aback by the sincerity of _Mr. Ross'_ gratitude, Jill's expression softens.

 _Ever naive and so emotional, they truly are a perfect match,_ Albert muses in disgust. Having grown tired of their company, he politely part ways; ever mindful to remain entirely in character.

Albert Wesker hears Claire Redfield's voice well before he sees her. The immense relief felt at knowing she had shown up catches him by surprise. It had been two years since their paths last crossed; not long enough, he tells himself. The lie is too blatant to acknowledge.

Claire is talking with Sheva about duty, so it sounds. For an instant he remains put, listening to what he can while pretending to study an elegant water sculpture that decorates the back of the great hall. In his mind's eye, he envisions the biker wearing her Valkyrie vest, favourite jeans, and boots; hair tied up in its trademark pony-tale.

It is not long before Sheva walks past him wearing an expression that is carefully neutral. This time, there is no doubt the soldier has taken note of him. Ms. Alomar has always been astute.

Spotting his opportunity, Albert glances over to where Claire now stands. Had it not been for her familiar features, he might not have recognised her. Clad in a simple black slip gown and heels the biker is a sight to behold. Gone is the trademark pony-tail as long auburn hair tumbles past her shoulders. As always, Claire wears no make-up; aesthetic perfection requires no further decoration.

She is a Valkyrie among mere mortals.

Albert takes great care not to let his gaze linger too long, for he is entirely aware of his clumsy disguise. Still, it is difficult to look away. Recalling his reasons for being there, Albert soon approaches the biker with all the pomp and stance of a VIP.

'Now this is, indeed, a most unexpected sight. The self-righteous and pious Claire Redfield, reduced to begging from the rich to feed the poor.' He begins. Such a statement is entirely out of Sebastian's character; the man had always been soft spoken in nature. Still, Albert is unable to resist. It had been too long since they had exchanged teasing barbs.

Claire's blue eyes widen slightly; a strange look crosses her features as she steps back. Her response, or lack thereof, is entirely unexpected. For once, she is without a quick quip, or sharp comeback.

Immediately, Albert registers he had nearly blown his cover. 'Are you quite alright?' he tries again. This time careful to intone just the right amount of concern in his voice.

The younger woman is quick to regain her composure. Albert feels Claire's eyes watching him intently; taking in his disguise and clearly searching for something more. There is no denying the flicker of hope in her gaze when their eyes meet once again, or the relief felt to the realization of what it meant.

If Claire Redfield has not already figured out his identity, she would soon enough.

'Does it really matter if their motives are less than noble, if it means innocent lives can be saved?' Claire retorts in cool tones.

Once, Albert had mocked her with those very words. He tilts his head in reply, as a hint of a smirk plays on his lips. _Oh, you have not changed a bit, Dearheart,_ he silently muses.

'Forgive me, I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Claire Redfield,' she apologizes, as if suddenly recalling her manners, or perhaps, the game they must play.

'I am well aware of who you are,' Albert drops the accent, earning a hesitant smile from Claire.

'You should not be here,' Claire warns in low tones. Scanning the room with her eyes, she maintains the appearance one casually taking in the party. Her concern is amusing to behold, as if he had not already taken great precautions to ensure his ruse would not be compromised.

'A pleasure to see you too, Dearheart,' Albert retorts in soft tones, upon noting her soft sigh of relief. Claire's cheeks warm to his teasing words. It is an oddly welcoming sight to behold. Disguises aside, nothing has changed between them.

'Don't get me wrong, the get up is brilliant. But, Albert, what are you doing here?' Claire hisses under her breath. Straight to business. He expected nothing less from her. This too is a relief.

'I have a business proposition. One that I believe you will find most interesting. A favour, for a favour, as it were.'

Folding her arms, Claire casts him a cautious look.

'Tell me Dearheart, have you ever heard of the t-Phobos virus?' Albert casually asks.

'Care to explain?' Claire's question is a demand. Naturally, his question met with doubt and suspicion. Clearly, it is too much to ask for a little cooperation.

'What is there to explain? Would I have asked if I already had the answers?' Albert snaps back in quiet tones.

Claire takes pause, his words carefully considered. 'Tell me about this business proposition of yours,' she directs instead. A wise move, considering their current location. Still, the matter is of a sensitive nature, one that requires further care.

'Might I suggest, we discuss this elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere a bit more private.' It is a calculated risk, but Claire has proven herself trustworthy in the past.

Mistaking his invitation, the biker scoffs in disbelief.

'Do, try to contain yourself.' Albert retorts in disgust, rolling his eyes. 'If you are incapable of behaving in a professional manner, then I will find another to do business with.'

Without warning, Claire slips her fingers through the crook of his arm. Startled, Albert shoots her a questioning look. 'Alright, let's go.' She says in resignation.

It is the closest Albert will get to an apology.

'Part ways with your allies first. It will not do to have them worry.' Albert instructs, relinquishing his arm free of Claire's gentle grip. 'When you are done, meet me outside. I will arrange for our ride,' he concludes. The biker rolls her eyes, but gives him a nod of acknowledgement. She is as eager as he to leave the party.

Upon departing for the exit, Albert feels Claire's watchful gaze on him. Glancing back, he catches sight of her saying her good-byes to Sheva across the room. Their eyes meet, albeit briefly, before Claire promptly looks away.

 _Interesting, wouldn't you say?_ William's phantom murmurs in his thoughts.

Indeed, it is most curious. Whatever it could mean, if it means anything at all, Albert does not allow himself to consider it further.

His thoughts have already moved on to more pressing matters. A new, terrifying, threat was on the verge of making itself known to the world. One, that would ensure the resurrection of Oswell Spencer's research.

Such a possibility must not be allowed.


	2. New Dawn Fades

Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. - George Bernard Shaw

* * *

'That's it? Where's the bells and whistles, the secret keys and hidden doors?' Claire balks, upon entering the Organization's main office. She is right; the offices are quaint by comparison to the opulent grandeur of Umbrella or Tricell's headquarters.

'Alright, now we're here, let's get to business. What do you have for me, Albert?'

'You will have your answers, once I remove my disguise.' Albert states.

'Fine, do what you must, but hurry it up! Its late, and these damned heels aren't doing me any favours.' Claire snaps.

Retreating to his office at the top of a winding set of stairs Albert steps into the small washroom at the back of his private office. Tilting a painting seated over the water closet off centre, he watches as the shower stall draws back revealing a hidden locker. Collecting the tools necessary from one of the shelves within, Albert begins the tedious task of shedding Sebastian Ross' _skin._

 _'Wonder what Ms. Redfield is up to now? Likely, rummaging through every drawer and every computer,'_ Oswell Spencer taunts.

Scowling, Albert ignores the phantom as he continues to wash up. It has been an eternity, or so it feels, since he was last able to move freely in his own body.

The sound of footsteps alerts him that someone is approaching.

'You still alive in there? Or should I be calling the authorities?' Claire mocks, banging on the doors of the private changeroom.

 _So much for beautifying yourself for your 'guest',_ William mocks from out of view.

'Oh, shut-up!' He hisses in return. Claire's snorting is heard well over the phantom's laughter. Satisfied, Mr. Ross essence has been fully purged, Albert proceeds to store the disguise in a closet behind the change room's shower stall.

Clad in black, he emerges from the washroom to find Claire moving about his office. She is neither troubled nor cautious of the security cameras that watch her every move. Instead, she appears more intrigued by the simple, yet elegant, silver sculptures decorating the outer corners of the room.

Noting his presence, she turns to face him. With her heels in one hand, and a small purse in the other, she offers him a nod.

'So, what is this 'T-Phobos'?' She demanded, folding her arms.

'You have not changed one bit.' Albert notes.

'I suppose not,' Claire says, with a wry smile. 'So, where's the labs? The high-level security and clearances? This is your main head-quarters, isn't it?'

'This is the 'rest of it'.' He retorts in a dry tone. 'To answer your question, I have little knowledge pertaining to the T-Phobos.'

'You expect me to believe that you, of all people, know nothing about this virus?' Claire says, as her fingers lightly tap the polished oak surface of his desk.

'To ensure the world continues to believe that Albert Wesker is _dead,_ I have been forced to relinquish many of my contacts within the black-market.' He replies.

'I still can't believe everyone bought it. It was just too simple…too obvious, to be real,' Claire asserts. 'I figured you had gone into hiding, the way you always did. Watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to terrorize the world once more.'

Albert ignores her jest. 'The T-Phobos was brought to my attention several weeks ago. More rumours, than fact. Something to the effect of a possible "fear virus" being harvested in the regions near Estonia.'

Claire frowns to his words. 'And you are certain of that?'

'As I just said, at this time it is more rumour, than fact.' Albert states. 'If it is real, we will need to retrieve a sample so as to craft an antidote.'

'What makes you think I'm going to hunt down this crazy person, steal their virus and just hand it over to you?' Claire retorts, leaning against the desks edge.

'Because I intend to make an antidote, or were you not listening?' Albert deadpans. 'If I intended to use it for my own purposes, I would I really let you in on my plans?'

'Outside the obvious, what do you suppose their intent is with this T-Phobos virus? Financial gain? Political power?' She asks instead.

'This is not about politics or wealth. It is about power, the ability to create a new world, to become a _god,_ as it were.' He replies.

'World domination or destruction, how original.' Claire deadpans. 'So, how does this all play into your business proposition?'

'Terra-Save is in desperate need of funding, while my Organization requires public credibility. With the right approach, we can both benefit from the other's assistance,' Albert continues, 'I have funds, material, and labs your superiors require, while Terra-Save has credibility that my Organization needs. Endorse my work, and I will make Terra-Save's vaccination campaign a universal success.'

'And what exactly is your work?' Claire asks; her voice cautious, almost hopeful.

'I will tear down Oswell Spencer's greatest legacy piece by piece. From its ashes, I shall build my own.' His cryptic statement does little to appease her.

'That tells me nothing,' Claire states. 'You'll have to do better than that, Wesker.'

Albert sighs, not relishing the idea of having to explain himself to one who could not possibly understand. 'I am manufacturing a vaccine that will destroy the nucleic acid fingerprint found in all known strains of the T-Virus. It will ensure the demise of Oswell Spencer's greatest legacy; world supremacy, through bio-terrorism. Now, T-Phobos poses a threat to that plan, and I will not tolerate it. Does that satisfy your query, my dear?'

It will also mark the demise of the world renowned pharmaceutical empires whose profits rely solely upon bio-warfare, and its prevention. He knows better than to share that detail with Claire. This is not about saving the world, or ending corruption, this is about power.

Claire's silence fills the room. Albert can see she is weighing his words, searching for any sign of duplicity. There is none to be found.

'Alright. Count me in.' She agrees.

'Good. We will commence in the morning. We have much to do, and little time to do it in.' Albert concludes. ending their discussion.

With their discussion now over Claire has little reason to remain. Slipping on her heels, she departs, unaware that Albert had anticipated her response all along.

* * *

 **Beta:** Thank you to Ultimolu for reading this mess over. Also for reminding me of the importance of keeping it short and sweet. After all, only bedtime stories are meant to put you to sleep ;) **  
**


	3. Control

_"Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change." - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley_

* * *

Two boys in hospital gowns lay strapped against a steel table in a brightly lit laboratory. There is a stench of antiseptic hanging in the air. Adjacent from the two-way mirror, sits a machine that hums as the twin's vitals are recorded.

One boy is strong and healthy; the other is small and frail. The bigger child having had all he can take opens his mouth to scream; the tube in his throat makes it impossible.

The sickly boy, far calmer, grabs his brother's hand; giving it a squeeze. He offers a smile, the sort their mother used to wear when he was forced to spend long days at the hospital. In those frightening moments, only her gentle presence kept him from succumbing to his fears. She is long gone, as is the hope she once carried with her.

'Are we going to die here?' rasps his brother. The boy's breathing begins to steady; his fear remains palpable.

'I…do not know,' the smaller child replies. It is not the answer the older twin wants to hear. Father taught them to always speak the truth, even if it hurts.

This time, there is no comforting him.

Male attendants are quick to enter the room, each holding a needle gun in hand. The panicked child is soon put to sleep. His voiceless screams were put to an end without so much as a sound.

The smaller boy does not struggle; it would be pointless to resist. A moment later, the familiar pin prick of a needle pierces his throat and all goes black.

Albert awakens a grown man alone in his penthouse.

Disconcerted, he tries to forget the dream. The further he tries to put out of his mind, the more it lingers. The remainder of the night is spent in fitful sleep.

* * *

In a small apartment across town, Claire awakens with a muffled gasp to the heavy weight of smooth fingers clamped over her mouth.

'Night, night.' An oddly familiar voice purrs in her ear, as a sharp needle pricks the flesh of her throat.

There is no one near to bear witness to her screams of agony. She is alone.

* * *

Albert expects Claire to be waiting for him at the labs. In the past, she had always been prompt, often arriving well before him to their clandestine meetings. There is no sight of her this morning. He should have anticipated her absence, given the rather skeptical response to his proposition.

Annoyed, Albert departs for the basement levels where most of his research is conducted. There is much work to do and he cannot be bothered with Claire's childish games.

Full bodied biohazard suits are standard fare for all researchers handling dangerous contagions. Despite being time consuming and none too comfortable they are but one of the many safety implements that _Mr. Ross_ saw to personally. Decontamination rooms, too, serve as a reminder to a past Albert has no intention of repeating. How different things might have been had Umbrella been more mindful of such precautions at Spencer's mansion.

The warning light changes from crimson to jade as the fans and spray nozzles of the decontamination room shut off. A moment later and the door before Albert unlocks permitting him entry. Donning a full biohazard suit he steps into the small brightly lit test chambers. Taking his place among his fellow masked colleagues in silence, Mr Ross observes their preparation for the next sequence of tests.

'Is everything in order?' he asks in brisk tones.

'Yes, Director.' The lead researcher confirms through the audio built into his bio suit.

'Excellent. Let us begin.'

Immediately, the researchers all take their positions as the latest test begins. Through the double-sided mirror they watch as a burly man strapped to a table is electronically wheeled in. He bears evident symptoms of the infection.

'Test subject is a white male, classified as middle aged with otherwise healthy immunity and type O positive blood…' An older woman begins, her crisp voice enunciated by the audio devices they all wore. Some monitor the equipment used to collect samples and date, others record their observations. Only the soft hiss hush of ventilation systems pumping clean air into their suits and the thrum of machines is heard.

Albert focuses his attentions on the drone that now injects the test subject with a clear serum. It is his most recent work and he is confident in its success. Around him, the other researchers wait, eager for some instantaneous miracle, like urban legends of old. It will be at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours before any significant improvements would be noted. This little detail is kept hidden from his much younger colleagues.

This is a test of another sort; one meant to evaluate the full capacity of their patience and skill set being put under the most strenuous circumstances. They are the best, so he has been told, today will either prove this statement or make liars of them all.

Albert's eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then to the small device on his wrist. There is no email, no audio message, no notification of Claire attempts to make contact. His frown is mistaken for annoyance over the lack of immediate results. The researchers being to cross exam the readings, speaking in quiet tones among themselves.

The test subject's clenches his teeth tightly as he begins to violently shudder. Arching back in pain, he twists and shifts, shaking all the while as his muscular bulky frame takes on a distorted, almost rubbery, appearance. Thick walls silence the man's horrific screams of agony.

Albert monitors the researchers with detached interest as they all monitor their test subject, carefully recording his suffering with varying degrees of concern.

 _Albert._

Beyond the hiss-hush of the air purifiers and the soft hum of various machines Albert hears someone whisper his name. It is a familiar voice, one that brings forth a twinge of concern. This is not the time for old phantoms.

 _Albert._

The whispered voice grows louder. Albert realizes it is coming from the test subject. An impossibility, given the man's current state of grand mal seizure. Somehow, throughout it all, the cavy continues to remain conscious.

Frowning, Albert cautiously approaches the double-sided mirror. Unable to look away, he watches in disbelief as the subject's once muscular body begins to diminish, seemingly melting away until there is little left. A small diminutive boy lay where once had been a brawny hardened grown man.

Confused, Albert presses his fingers against the double-sided mirror leaning in to further examine what had just transpired. To his dismay, his team continues their work, completely unresponsive to the transformation.

 _Albert!_

His eyes snap back to the double-sided mirror. Glaring at him with a bloodshot gaze is the young child Albert had once been.

 _She's coming for you! She's coming for us all!_

Recoiling in shock to the phantoms furious warning, Albert backs into the young scientist standing behind him.

'Sir?' She asks. Her inquiry is ignored, prompting her to swiftly return to her duties.

Albert looks back to the double-sided mirror. It is as though nothing has transpired. The burly man lays unconscious on his triage bed; no sign of struggle or suffering visible hardened features. The cavy appears merely in a deep sleep, not dying from a deadly bioweapon.

The strange child had been nothing but a phantom of his mind.

'Test subject levels are beginning to level, heartrate growing steady…' The lead researcher notes in crisp tones as everyone watches on. Albert does not need to see their expressions to know they are pleasantly surprised by the discovery.

'Well done sir. The serum appears to be working exactly as you theorized,' exclaims another young scientist through the audio of her biohazard suit. She is a promising recruit, one of many who had been specifically chosen for his growing organization.

'Then you know what is to follow,' Albert warns, 'be at the ready.'

The young woman breathes what may have been a soft sigh through her biohazard suit. 'Yes, sir.'

As predicted, the subject's vitals begin to go awry, and everyone takes their places. The subject would spend the next several hours purging the virus within his blood. Stepping back Albert watches on as his researchers prove their mettle. They are prompt and astute in their response.

Pleased by their response, Albert departs without another word spoken. His team, now too distracted by the turn of events, pays him little mind. They are used to 'Mr. Ross' silent coming and goings.

Alone, in the decontamination room Albert stands, his thoughts returning to the strange events of moments prior. His shade's warning leaves more questions than answers.

Deemed safe from biohazardous contamination Albert returns to the surface. His phone, now back in service, begins to chime. A long string of messages, each claiming utmost importance, demand his attention. None are from Claire Redfield.

Clearly, her allies had advised her not to attend the meeting. He would have to investigate this matter further.

Making his way down the hall, a receptionist approaches, a friendly smile on her lips. 'Mr. Ross, this just arrived for you.'

Albert accepts the envelope with disinterest. Making his way back to his office, _Mr. Ross_ absentmindedly tears the letter open, half expecting another request for donations, or a thin-veiled attempt to sell wares.

It is not that sort of letter.

 _'Sacrifice the queen, and the King shall be smothered.'_

Frowning, Albert stares at the familiar script of his own handwriting. A poorly executed joke? The thought was promptly dismissed.

It can only meet one thing.

When he finally comes to his senses, Albert finds himself standing over the small desk of his private office. The automated message of Claire's answering machine plays on, while he stares blankly at the disposable phone he now holds. The laptop in front of him reveals an encrypted message had just been sent.

 _'Something vexes you subject 13?'_ Oswell Spencer whispers.

Tightly clenching his fist, Albert shatters the phone in hand silencing Claire's chirpy recording with a warbled squawk. Behind him, Spencer's raspy cackle echoes off the walls and in his mind.

 _Claire is a capable woman. Let her find her own way out of this mess._ William interjects.

He is right. Still…

 _'Stay out of it, Wesker. She's not your problem,'_ Chris warns from the shadows.

'There is nothing you can do, that I cannot do better.' Albert bites back.

The phantom soldier's look of disgust is readily ignored.

Using a formally defunct codename, Albert sends a brief anonymous message to a mutual contact.

 _This isn't like you at all, delegating duties to your minions, while you lurk in the shadows. Some things never change,_ William mocks. _The black knight in shining armour._

'Do shut up,' Albert hisses. 'This is strictly business.'

 _'Don't you ever tire of lying to yourself?_

This time, it is Claire's voice that whispers in his ear.

'SILENCE!' Albert roars in rage.

His desk, crafted out of thick stainless steel, is thrown across the room with the greatest of ease. The deafening crash forces him back to the present.

'Her fate is none of my concern. There is much work to do and I simply cannot tolerate further delays,' Albert asserts in stiff tones. The phantoms do not respond. The statement is hollow even to his ears.

His wristwatch chimes, a kindly message from his administrative assistant reminds him that the media were awaiting his arrival in the corporate meeting room. The meeting was to signify his pharmaceutical company The Organization going public.

Claire, a respected representative of TerraSave, was to be in attendance for the meeting. Her presence would have been a powerful symbol, one that would not have gone unnoticed by the media vultures. This was not as he had planned, but he was, if nothing, good at improvisation.

His wristwatch chimes; his contact has arrived on site. The matter is now out of his hands. Collecting his suit jacket Albert pauses to take one last look in the bathroom mirror. Despite the outburst of earlier, his disguise remains unmarred. Satisfied, he swiftly departs for the corporate meeting room on the main floor.

There is little else he can do, save, maintaining the greatest performance of his life.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Congratulations you actually made it to the end! I apologize for the grammatical mistakes, lack of character development, and the many other flaws that fill this chapter. It's been a trying few months in the world of real life and, sadly, it shows._

I do plan to, at some point, clean this rubbish up. However, for now, I'd rather keep the plot moving forward. I fear should I pause to constantly change and correct I'm certain to turn away from this story for good. So, for the time being, dear Grammar Police, I apologize but 'this is not the story you are looking for'…At least not for now…


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

Claire's eyes snap open as she inhales a sharp gasp of air. Around her shadows shift and move like tendrils reaching out to grab her. Fumbling forward, Claire trips over tangled sheets her arms and legs feel too long for comfort, as her heart pounds loudly in her ears.

Falling onto the hardwood floor she cries out in pain, feeling as though her joints were made of glass. Around her the unseen eyes from the moving shadows screech forcing her to cover her bloodied ears with hands made out of thumbs.

Staggering to her feet Claire sways as around her the room spins. While the walls expand and contract as though breathing. 'Help…' She whispers in a voice that is deafening to her ears.

Crawling on hands and knees, she slowly makes her way to the bathroom. Entering the tiny shower stall, she takes great care to shut the glass door. She will be safe in here. The ceiling window is certain to provide enough light, to prevent the shadowed tendrils from entering the bathroom.

Drawing on her last strength Claire activates the shower head sinking back to the floor as icy water pours against her burning hot skin. With arms wrapped tightly around her legs Claire stares ahead in silence. As beyond the bathroom, invisible eyes and shadow tendrils watch and wait biding their time.

* * *

Sheva is the first to receive Albert's encoded message. Albeit brief, there is no denying its urgency. Alerting her superiors of her actions, she departs for her friend's single bedroom flat.

Standing in front of Claire's apartment Sheva breathes another prayer for her friend as she slips a key Claire had given her (for house sitting while Claire was in Australia) into the lock. Normally, she would have chastised the biker for not having changed her locks since Albert's faked death. Now, cautiously entering her friend's apartment, Sheva is just grateful the key still works.

Stepping inside, she takes pause, allowing her eyes to adjust to the bright midday sun pouring through the large window of the living room. Despite the cheery, friendly setting there is a heaviness in the air. The hair on the back of Sheva's neck stands up as a faint, yet all too familiar scent catches her attention. It can only mean one thing.

'Claire? It's me, Sheva.'

Glancing about the living room Sheva looks for any sign of an intrusion or a break in. Nothing appears to be out of place or broken. The attack appears to have been premeditated and properly planned. The sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall ends Sheva's investigation.

Turning towards the small hallway Sheva is taken aback to the sight of something staggering out of the bathroom. With its body entirely covered in blood and a black oily substance it is difficult to confidently discern that it is her friend. Even her face is hidden behind thick strands bloodied, oil covered hair. Although entirely ruined, Sheva can make out the familiar logo of Claire's favorite rock band on the pajama tank top she wears. It is all the confirmation she needs.

'Claire, help is on the way-'

The biker pounces without warning, slamming Sheva against the back wall of the small hallway. Winded, she struggles to breathe as Claire's vice like grip tightens around her throat.

'What have you done to me?' Claire hisses through blood stained teeth. The biker's pupils are diluted, bloodshot and wild. Her arms are covered in dark veins, an all too familiar warning sign of what is certain to come.

Sheva strikes back hitting Claire hard in the side of her face with the butt of her M92F. Crying out, the biker releases her grip, clutching her head as she staggers back. Coughing violently; Sheva moves back as well putting some space between them.

'Show yourself!' Claire growls, momentarily disorientated by the attack. Setting eyes on her Sheva she rushes forward ready to strike. Sheva, now prepared, blocks the attack with ease.

Gripping Claire's chin, Sheva tries to force the biker's attention. 'Claire, it's me, Sheva!' Claire reaches for Sheva's throat, but there is no strength in her grip. 'Look at me. Focus on my voice! I'm Sheva, your friend, remember? I'm not your assailant. We're on the same side!'

Claire's glossy eyes clear and for a moment she is aware. Blinking, she takes in her surroundings as though for the first time. 'Is Albert here?' she whispers. The hope in her voice is blatant. A moment of vulnerability that was not meant for Sheva to witness.

'No, I'm sorry.' Sheva confesses.

With that, Claire lips curl into a scowl as her eyes gloss over. Casting her friend an apologetic look, Sheva swiftly performs a blood choke.

The biker falls unconscious at Sheva's boots.

* * *

The announcement of 'The Organization' going public went smoother than Albert could have anticipated. As expected, the media pounced on the sinister history of The Organization's VIP Mr. Ross. Prepared for the attack, Wesker readily answers their accusations with ease, drawing on truths he had procured from Mr. Ross past. When his audience demanded to know of Claire Redfield's absence, Albert, posing as Mr. Ross, sings her praises. Making her out as a hero called away on an unexpected emergency; off saving the innocent from a possible terrorist attack.

It proved the perfect lead in for his speech.

'…In a world where bio-terrorism has become a terrible reality, we need to turn our attentions to the protection of the future; our children. When my son died during the outbreak of Racoon City, I learned the hard way that power means nothing if it comes at the cost of all that I love.

In his honor, I have chosen to dedicate my life to the creation of antidotes all bio-weapons currently in existence, as well as any future strains that may arise. They will made available for any and all who require it and at no cost.

I owe it to my son, and to the many other innocent lives who paid the ultimate price for my arrogance and ignorance. I dare not ask for your forgiveness; I can only ask that you allow me this opportunity to undo a little of the damage I have caused. So that never again will we ever have to experience another Racoon City, Kijuju or Pueblo de Salazar…'

Brushing away the memory of the morning events, Albert turns his attentions to the matter at hand. No longer wearing the disguise of Mr. Ross, he has opted for a more sublime identity, one that enables him free movement as well as anonymity. With a dark wig, colored contacts and set of clothes entirely out of character, he appears as a rugged, if not fashionable, outdoors man.

To his immense surprise, there is no evidence of either BSAA or Terra-Save to be seen at Claire's small apartment building. Nothing appears out of the ordinary in the foyer, even the hallways are empty. Leaving him to wonder if his message had even been received.

Stepping inside Claire's unlocked small flat, Albert frowns noting that nothing appears out of place. He had not been expecting this and it adds to his doubts. That is, until he picks up an unmistakably familiar scent.

 _The past rears its ugly head, yet again_. Glancing over his shoulder, Albert expects to see Claire standing behind him. She is not within his sights.

Making his way down the small hall Albert only pauses to carefully step over a dark puddle. Upon further examination, Albert notes it is blood intermingled with an all too familiar inky black substance. 'Not this again,' He murmurs under his breath.

 _Do you suppose he had an accomplice?_ Claire's shadow asks looking over his shoulder. 'The doppelganger handiwork, most likely,' he sighs in annoyance.

Rising to his feet, Albert finds himself suddenly in the company of a disheveled, infected Claire Redfield. She speaks not a word, only staring at him with blank bloodshot eyes. Behind her stands a troubled Sheva who is as surprised to see Albert, as he is to see Claire in her current state.

The biker lunges at him with a snarl, only to collapse lifeless into his arms. She is lighter than Albert would have expected. He can almost feel her ribs through the blood-stained tank she wears. _Too thin,_ he muses, noting the irony. In those rare moments when he witnessed her eating, Albert was always struck by Claire's voracious appetite.

Claire is pale, far paler than Albert has ever seen her before. The welt on her left brow, once a bright red, is rapidly turning ashen. Her skin is cold and clammy, as inky black tendrils cover her arms and legs. Even her neck and cheeks are marred with signs of the Oroboros infection, completing the macabre image of one who had succumbed to death.

After all he had sacrificed, all he had endured, it could not end this way. Albert would have none of it.

'I will not tolerate such failure! Now wake up!' Albert growls, shaking Claire's lifeless form in his arms.

'Just what the hell do you think you're doing?' Sheva snaps, gripping Albert by the shoulders.

'This does not concern you! I have had about enough-'

'Albert? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back at your labs?' Sheva demands.

She is right. What exactly was he doing here? Had he completely lost his mind? Thinking fast, Albert draws on the obvious. 'Where are your allies? When I contacted you, I expected you to call upon the BSAA and TerraSave.' Albert demands.

'Of course, I did, and I'm certain they'll be here shortly.' Leading Albert back to the living room, Sheva turns to face him. 'What are you doing here? And in that pathetic excuse of a disguise, no less? Have you completely lost your mind?'

Sheva is right. This is a foolhardy plan, one that could easily be his undoing. Albert has his reasons, but he is reluctant to share them, even with a potential ally such as Sheva.

Setting the biker's unconscious form on the couch, he notices a slight, yet steady movement of the thin strands of hair that now fall across her face. Sheva too, immediately takes note, and visibly relaxes to the sight. Claire is breathing; albeit with shallow breaths. The relief felt to the discovery is palpable, and it terrifies Albert more than he cares to admit.

'What do you think? I need a sample of her blood.' It is the truth, after a fashion.

Rolling her eyes, Sheva scoffs. 'Well you better hurry up, they're due to arrive any minute now.'

Collecting two vials of Claire's now infected blood Albert ignores Sheva, who rummages through a small closet in search of a blanket.

'I will keep you informed of my progress with the antidote. Meanwhile, you will keep me up to date on Ms. Redfield's condition, understood?' Albert announces putting away his newly acquired samples into the shoulder bag he carries.

Sheva returns; a wool blanket in her arms. 'And just what am I supposed to tell my superiors?'

'Tell them the truth, minus the details of my visit, of course. You said yourself, it will only lead to unwanted questions.'

Draping the knitted blanket over Claire's shoulders, Sheva frowns. 'So, is this an old foe, or new threat? And what do they hope to accomplish?'

If the question was meant for his ears, or hers alone, Albert cannot say. Departing, he does not bother with a response. Some questions were best left unanswered.

If he did not act and soon, the cycle was certain to begin again.

* * *

Author's note: This chapter was not my finest, as I'm certain most of you will have already noticed. Yes, there are many errors of the grammatical variety, spelling mistakes (I think I caught them all *Thanks Evolution-500* but some may have been missed), plot holes, and the like. I'm fairly certain this tale isn't going in the direction anyone wants but there you have it.

Am stumped with this story and so as to resist temptation of walking away from it I'm just going to post the raw stuff for the time being and return at a later date to clean it all up. So to the grammar/plot/spelling police; sorry this is not the story you're looking for, at least not for now...


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